


Underneath the Mistletoe

by residentdogenthusiast



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Christmas Party, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe, Washette - Freeform, google translate french, late christmas fic, office parties, sort of flirting i'm not good at writing it, this was just 2000 words of leading up to a washette kiss i a p o l o g i z e
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 18:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/residentdogenthusiast/pseuds/residentdogenthusiast
Summary: Usually, Washington didn’t really do office parties. But then again, he usually didn’t kiss strangers under mistletoe either.





	Underneath the Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> i apologize for this late christmas fic i just managed to finish it today

George Washington sort of floats through the crowd of people at the ‘ugly sweater’ office party, eyes scanning the place for the well known faces of his coworkers and friends under the dim lighting of the bar. He grips a glass of scotch on the rocks he’d picked up when he first arrived, though he’s not really drunk much from it—just allowing the ice to melt and water down the liquor, trying to blend into the crowd. It’s late on a Friday night, so the lounge is packed with bodies that shout over the music or dance filthily along to the lewd music playing. He recognizes some from the office and even chats up one or two, but for the most part he feels out of place among the sea of unfamiliar people. Though Hamilton had reserved the spot for their office party for the evening, it becomes obvious that more than a few coworkers had dragged along friends to the party in order to avoid getting dragged into more boring work talk while trying to let loose. The music coming from the mounted speakers is loud and full of bass, and his temples throb with an oncoming headache. Washington is honestly beginning to regret coming, but he had promised Martha he’d work on getting out of the house more and besides, Hamilton had put a lot of time in planning this event.

Spotting the young writer lingering across the room at the bar, Washington allows himself to drift towards him. It’s not like there is anyone else at their office that he has a good rapport with, and at least Hamilton would hold a conversation with him instead of idly holding small talk before drifting away.

The man in question speaking with another man whose back is to George, but whatever the stranger is saying must be funny because Hamilton is grinning wildly at him and interrupting with loud guffaws of laughter. His cheeks are flushed a bright red and he sways a bit on his feet whenever he attempts to stand without leaning on the bar. George wonders just how drunk his most prized journalist is. When he gets close enough, Alexander notices him and hurriedly waves him over, that electric grin never once faltering from his face. Washington doesn’t have to wonder anymore—it’s obvious that the young man is more than tipsy.

“Sir! How are you enjoying the party?” Hamilton asks with a slur to his speech, shouting at his boss over the loud music.

“It’s lovely, Alexander. I’m having a good time,” he lies, offering up an approving smile. The young man beams at him—all that youth and longing for validation shining through now that his inhibitions are loosened—, before his face melts into something akin to remembrance and he grabs the man he’d been talking to by the arm.

The second he turns to face him, George firstly notice how attractive this man is. Secondly, he notes there is something strikingly familiar about his features. Though he can’t imagine where he’d seen such a stunning beauty before. He’s nearly perfection, with a strong jawline and smooth mocha colored skin. His enchanting hazel eyes are lined with a rim of thick black eyeliner, and he has an intoxicating smile that he flashes warmly at the older man. He’s taller than Alexander but not quite as tall as Washington himself, with a lithe lean body beneath his form-fitting jeans and shirt.

His shirt, which is very obviously _not_ an ugly sweater. Not even the horrid tinsel and glitter combination lining the green and orange fabric can seemingly be ugly on the young Adonis.

“George, this is my friend, Gilbert de Lafayette! Lafayette, this is my boss, George Washington!” Alex shouts, grinning between the two of them. He looks like an excited child showing his parent a new drawing, his eyes darting between the two men with anticipation and excitement. Washington barely notices the glare that his friend flashes him.

“A pleasure, _monsieur_. Alexandre has said much about you,” Lafayette says, his voice sultry and laced with a thick French accent. He’s still smiling that bright, thousand watt smile that slightly makes the man’s head rush. Washington swallows and nods his head, feeling his own cheeks flush.

“Good things, I can only hope,” he jokes, to which Lafayette laughs. His head falls back, exposing trails of smooth, silky skin that somehow catches Washington's eye. There’s something tinkling and sweet about his laughter, something that evokes a small chuckle out of the older man.

 _“Oui! Il a dit des choses qui vous feraient rougir,"_ Lafayette says and places a hand on George’s forearm, which earns him an alarmed slap on the bicep from Hamilton. George must have a look of confusion written all over his face, because Laf quickly begins to apologize. “I’m sorry, I have just returned from France. I have to break the habit of slipping between languages now that I am in America again.”

Hamilton nods excitedly, seemingly chomping at the bit to tell his boss all about his friend. “Lafayette is this _really_ famous French model. In France, he can’t go anywhere without paparazzi at his heels. He walked in Paris Fashion Week this year, and he was the first male Victoria’s Secret model. Too high end to hang with us plebs anymore.”

It’s Lafayette’s turn to blush now, and he tucks some of his dark curls behind his ear before he speaks. George thinks the action is cute. _“Vous êtes tellement embarrassant_. Please, pay no mind to my friend. He is drunk, and telling business he has no right to.”

“He’s being modest,” Alexander says, with a frown—something that tells his boss that Lafayette was not usually so. George watches the entire exchange with amused eyes, observing as the two of them banter and argue like siblings—slipping in and out of the English and French language, falling into what seems to be a comfortable pattern of bickering. Lafayette shoves Hamilton slightly when he says something in French, to which the young man raises his hands in defense and mutters something about finding his wife. He slips away from the two and into the crowd, leaving them alone.

There is a brief silence before George breaks it, taking a sip of his watered down scotch and wincing a bit. “A model, huh? That must be an fun profession.”

Lafayette rolls his eyes, obviously over the entire affair. He begins walking through the crowd as he speaks, so George takes it as his que to follow—making sure to keep in stride with the young man so he’ll be able to hear him over the noise of the lounge. “ _Please_. It’s exhausting. Maintaining myself to get the best business is getting tiring. I think I’m beginning to mature from the excitement of the attention. Did you know this is the first non-work related party I’ve been to in a year?”

“And how are you enjoying it?”

He shrugs, and takes a drink of something in his cup. It looks fruity and sweet, and it must be, because Lafayette gives a small smile. “I’m enjoying myself. I’ve met a lot of Alexandre’s coworkers, some very attractive ones. I was unaware that my cousin and Alexandre work for the same newsletter.”

Washington ignores how pointed the words ‘very attractive ones’ are. He ignores the way Lafayette looks at him when he says it. He changes the subject.

“Your cousin?”

“Thomas. Thomas Jefferson.” The flicker of recognition from earlier returns, the pieces clicking into place in Washington’s mind. _That’s_ where the familiarity comes from. Thomas and Gilbert both share similar facial qualities, especially the strong jawlines and dark bouncy curls. Though Gilbert seemed to carry himself with a more elegant poise and grace, whereas Thomas tended to be all grandiose arrogance. Curiously, George’s eyes scan the room until he finds the young Virginian in question on the dancefloor, grinding drunkenly against an equally inebriated Angelica Schuyler. Lafayette follows his gaze and breathes out a snort of laughter when he finds what he is looking at. “Yes, that _is_ my cousin. He spent childhood summers at our home in France, we are like brothers. It pains me that he and Alexandre cannot have a friendly relationship—they are so alike, yet so different, _non_?”

“More than they will ever know. I try to keep things cordial in the office,” George offers lamely, taking a sip of his drink again simply because there’s nothing better to do with his hands. He hadn’t realized they’d stopped walking, but when he does he turns to look at him. “They have their political difference, but we maintain order for a amicable workplace. We manage to keep the physical altercations to a minimum.”

That last bit is a joke—Washington admires all of his employees, but if they were to come to physical blows they’d be out of a job in a second flat—but if the Frenchman notices, he doesn’t laugh. Instead he has another smile on his glossed lips, a sort of wistful thing just just barely there. Washington watches his eyes as they float lazily over the room, occasionally zeroing in on one thing before losing interest and moving on. “Kind of you, but I doubt there is any leash on my Alex. He has always been a firecracker, since our boarding school days.”

He turns his gaze back to George, and the older of the two flushes underneath it. There is something fiery and intent there, something that tells Washington that Alexander Hamilton was not the only firecracker of the pair. For some odd reason, his mouth runs dry and he finds that a reply fails to come to mind. Lafayette’s eyes are bright and shining, even underneath the dim neon blue lights lining the slightly cheap bar. For some odd reason, Washington notices that glitter had begun falling from his shirt and onto his body, dusting his caramel colored flesh with tiny little sparkles. He looks almost ethereal.

Washington’s breath catches, and he opens and closes his mouth several times like gaping fish before saying, “It wasn’t all Alex. I can tell there’s some veracity left in you.”

This earns a laugh, one of his tinkling laughs that has his head falling back. George’s tongue involuntarily darts out to moisten his lips, but he finds that he needs more than that to soothe the dryness of his tongue. He takes a gulp of the watered down scotch, finds that the alcohol is still just potent enough to give him a little liquid courage.

“You read me so well, _chou_. I have my own tricks, yes. You’ll never catch them all,” he admits with a bit of slyness to his voice, before waving his hand in a dismissive form. There is something still twinkling in his eyes that says there is more that he wants to say, but that is all he’s willing to share for now. Washington chuckles. “Look at me, prattling on. What about you, Monsieur Washington? Were you ever a troublemaker?”

“Please, call me George. To answer your question, no. I’ve always been a military man. Made to receive orders, and follow them. Though I had a knack for giving them, too,” he muses on his days in the army, leveling his eyes with Lafayette’s.

The corners of the Frenchman’s lips twitch a bit at the last bit, and he seems to gravitate towards him as he speaks—his space becoming George’s, and vice versa. The two of them are standing awfully close now, but not close enough to seem out of place under the guise of a packed bar. Washington doesn’t know why he isn’t apprehensive about the way the other man is looking at him—why his usual urge to excuse himself from the conversation before sly flirting turns into blatant pursuit seems to fail him now. Maybe it’s the alcohol in his system, loosening his inhibitions. Or maybe it’s the fact that Lafayette is beautiful and stunning and he hasn’t been laid in god knows how long.

 _This a friendly conversation,_ he tries to remind himself. _He’s given no indication of being attracted to you._

Whatever the conversation is or isn’t, it comes to grinding halt when a very obviously wasted Angelica stumbles over to where they are and throws her arm merrily around her bosses shoulders. The smell of booze wafts off of her in crashing waves, betraying her level of sobriety before she even has a chance to speak. She’s followed by an equally inebriated Thomas, who holds onto her heels and jacket but seems to eager to get away from the bar and find somewhere far more isolated. He sways on his feet a little bit, his eyes coming in and out of focus as he tries to pay attention to whatever antics Angelica is getting herself into.

“George!” she slurs, grinning up at him cheekily. Lafayette casts his eyes away from the two of them immediately, attempting to look bored—though there is a flush in his face that betrays him. Washington would chuckle, if he didn't find himself fighting the urge to draw the alluring man's attention back to him. “Hi!”

“Hello, Angelica,” Washington greets kindly, removing her arm from his shoulder and steadying her on her feet. Or well, doing his best. “I see you’re having a good time tonight.”

“I am! B-but that’s not what… what—” she pauses to hiccup and giggles slightly to herself before managing to continue her sentence—pointing directly above their heads. “George, you and Frenchie are under the mistletoe!”

If Lafayette is offended by being called ‘Frenchie’, he says nothing. Simply follows the direction in which Angelica points to find that the drunk woman is in fact, correct—a hastily strewn bit of mistletoe hangs directly above their heads, dangling by a thread and on the verge of falling. The two of them had been standing under the mistletoe having their conversation, completely unaware of the innocuous plant.

Lafayette looks from the mistletoe to George, and there is that intense look in his eyes again. The gaze is heated and warms the space around the older man’s collar, stifling him in just the right way that would cause action and not discomfort. When the young model speaks, his voice is a silky purr—so low that he leans into the older man’s space so that he can whisper it into his ear. Washington shudders a bit, though nothing about him or this conversation is cold.

_“Je suppose que vous devez m'embrasser, monsieur.”_

George isn’t exactly brushed up on his skills in the French language, but he is clever enough to infer what Gilbert might have said. He looks between the mistletoe and Lafayette, wondering if he was going to honor the Christmas tradition for the sake of convention or because he is curious to see where it might lead. Throwing all caution to the wind—he can blame it on the alcohol later if everything goes poorly—he decides against his better judgement to kiss the man.

He leans forward at the same time Lafayette does, and their lips meet almost clumsily at first. George realizes a moment too late that its been a long while since he last kissed someone, and almost pulls away in embarrassment at his fumble. But he doesn’t get the chance, as the younger of the two digs his nails into the cloth of his sweater and keeps him there. He follows the lead of the younger man, getting his bearings before moving his mouth against him in a way that comes back to him slowly. His hands settle on Lafayette’s waist as though they’ve done this before, pulling the Frenchman’s body flush against his. He notices that the model tastes of sweet wine and strawberry flavored lip gloss, the latter of which sticking to his mouth.

He forgets that they’re in the middle of a crowded bar with all of his coworkers until there is a loud whoop of approval coming from his left, and he pulls away from the kiss to see Alexander supported mostly by his wife and an unfamiliar freckled man. He had been the one to cheer, but everyone of the people that worked with him had been watching the kiss with mixed reactions. He reads surprise, amusement, and even approval before he finally flits his eyes back to Lafayette.

“Looks like you have drawn us a crowd,” he chuckles, because he’s just kissed a stranger in a crowded bar and if he doesn't make a joke he might let the panic of seeing everyone at the office Monday seep in. Gilbert gives him a sly smile.

“Then let’s go somewhere with less prying eyes, oui?” he says, grabbing George’s wrist and pulling him towards the exit.

Washington doesn’t object.

* * *

 

**Translations**

_Oui! Il a dit des choses qui vous feraient rougir._ — Yes! He has said things that will make you blush.

 _Vous êtes tellement embarrassant._ — You are so embarrassing.

 _Je suppose que vous devez m'embrasser, monsieur._ — I guess you have to kiss me, sir.

**Author's Note:**

> !!!! my first fic of 2019 !!!!! happy new years y'all


End file.
